


danse macabre

by allsovacant



Series: something to cry on [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dance of Death, Dancing, Halloween Challenge, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Medieval Dance of Death, Past Character Death, Skeletons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 14:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16120310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: It’s been two years since his best friend died.And John is still torn between the land of the living and the realm of the dead.--unbeta'ed for the love of mistakes--





	danse macabre

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I do hope you'll glance at my end notes. Let's discuss. <3
> 
> This is the orchestral piece I listened to while typing this work: (track)  
> [Danse Macabre](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyknBTm_YyM)
> 
> I don't know if there was a fic written with this theme already (I didn't look). So without further a do, here's the messed up fusion of [Danse Macabre](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danse_Macabre) and johnlock.

**_| 31st October |_ **

John painfully drags his steps as he descends from the stairs of 221B, when he heard the door to flat A open, he tilts his head and saw Mrs. Hudson peering at him while wiping her hands covered with flour on her flowered apron.

“Oh, John,” Mrs. Hudson sighs, slightly shaking her head. “I wish I could come with you. But you know, it’s Hallows’ Eve— the kids?”

John gave her a terse nod. “Yes, of course. Mrs. Hudson—it’s alright. I could—,“ He draws a breath then releases it rather strained. “I could make it to—,“ He pauses, eyes suddenly blurring.

 _To—?_ says the voice inside John's head.

_**What? Where? Whom?** _

_**What would you say this time to him, John?** _

_**Or is it going to be the same? Asking for another miracle?** _

The voice mocks a laugh.

_**How laughable—when it’s all your fault.** _

_**You hadn’t done ENOUGH to stop it from happening.** _

_**You are HOPELESS. You are the one who killed him. Because we all know that HE killed HIMSELF for YOU.** _

“ _Fuck you_.” He mutters firmly to his _own_ voice in his head. Only, he said it rather.. a bit loud. His gaze clears and finds his landlady challenging him with a look.

He clears his throat, “I—uh—I apologise, Mrs. Hudson. It’s—it’s not you. Really. It’s me—No worries, I could make it to the place,” He shook his head slowly as he closes his eyes in embarrassment. He looks down on his feet, wincing, he forgot to put his shoes on.

_Goddamnit, Watson._

When he looks up, Mrs. Hudson is still staring at him. But now, her eyes were filled with sympathy.

And he hated it. Not the good old lady, God no.

But he hated that he’s still not over _it—_ That he’s still not over _him._

It’s been two years since his best friend died.

And he was still torn between the land of the living and the realm of the dead.

It’s like he’s half here and half there. Although most of the time, he felt the comfort of feeling almost _there._

“I understand, John.” Mrs. Hudson says. “I’m still not over _him_ as well.”

 _Him_ being _his best friend._ He can’t even say the man’s bloody name. Surprisingly, Mrs. Hudson agreed, not to mention his best friend’s name in the flat for a while, another act of sympathy for him. But no, indeed. Mrs. Hudson hasn’t forgotten in her own way, while he—he’s living the nightmare of that day over and over again. He can’t even look up to someone’s bloody rooftop.

John clears his throat again. “Right. Well, you’re quite… busy. I’m sure he will—understand—”

“Pity,” Mrs. Hudson cuts him off and sighs. John looks at his landlady and found her staring blankly in front of her. “I thought I might see him this time and I would really try _not_ to forget,” Mrs. Hudson continued.

John thought for a second. What was she saying? _This time?_ But before he could ask about it Mrs. Hudson had waves  _goodbye_ to him, stepping back inside her door, letting it close with a soft click.

He trudges back upstairs for his shoes, slipping it, lacing it, then he straightens up, checks his jacket. And finally, he gives himself a solemn look on the mirror. Involuntarily, his gaze drops at the middle upper right corner, where his best friend’s reflection would’ve given him the fierce once-over look, lips quirking in satisfaction of his chosen clothes, leaving him out of breath and trembling.

John shrugs his shoulders harshly. _Enough._

He walks out of the flat, locks the door, and makes his way down the stairs. Surprisingly, he felt _light_ unlike earlier.

He raises his hand hailing a cab when he heard his name being called out. He looks behind and saw Mrs. Hudson waving a hand to get his attention. He waves back giving her a small smile when a cab pulls through the sidewalk and stops across his spot.

He opens the door and gets inside, at the same time as Mrs. Hudson came rushing to him running and gripping on his hand resting by the cab’s window. Just like she did, every time they visit his best friend’s grave at All Hallows’ Eve.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a gentle look and squeezes his hand.

_“Try to remember, John.”_

He was about to ask what it was because it seemed _very_ important to her but again, Mrs. Hudson had already let him go, waving the driver away. John watches, bewildered as his landlady went back inside 221, not even paying him a second look. The driver starts the engine and the cab starts on moving.

  
“Where to?” the driver asks.

“Hartswood Cemetery,” John replies immediately. He just wanted this day to be over so that he could hide inside his room and blame himself again.

###

John arrives at the site at ten-thirty in the evening, his watch says. He didn’t go straight from 221. He drops by the flower shop picking up his reservation of a bouquet of white lilies. Mrs. Hudson said that the flower symbolises the soul of the departed has received restored innocence after death. God, he didn’t even know if his best friend even cares about flowers. Mrs. Hudson was usually the one to bring them the last time. Too bad, she couldn’t be with him, John thought. He could really need some company. And come to think of it, it’d be the first time that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be with him.

The grave was unkempt. John noticed. Wild grasses had grown a lot from the entrance, even the pathway leading to the Hartswood Chapel was covered in grasses. Ivies crawled their way on most of the old tombstones. Dead leaves and the decaying ones decorate the path towards the clearing where his best friend lay. It was even darker on this part of the cemetery but the moon shone above casting perfect shadows of the willow tree towering over the numerous headstones.

And then John sees _him._

The marble was forty-five inches tall, thirty inches wide and about six inches deep. The usual measurement of headstones. Funny how his mind remembered these details when the _worth_ of the life of the person buried there couldn’t be measured by anything. Couldn’t be weighed by anything. Couldn’t be replaced and symbolised by just a headstone with _only_ a name written in it. And yet his best friend suffered criticism from his own countrymen, distrust, losing his friends, _his only friend._

_You are the one who betrayed him._

John closes his eyes for the nth time. He draws a breath, his lips trembling. He didn’t bother fighting off the voice inside his head.

Tonight, just tonight. He will let these thoughts torture him until it was satisfied until his eyes are out of fluids until he couldn’t feel the pain until it was another morning--another day of _mourning._

John kneels in front of the marble while replacing the withering stems of lilies with the fresh ones he has in his arms. Then he sits in front of the headstone and watches, as his reflection against the marble is dimmed by the shadows of the branches above. He folds his legs close to him and wraps his arms around his knees. He drops his head in between his knees and for the first time in two years, John Watson and the voice in his head speaks the same name. The last time he said it was when he watched his best friend _fall_ from the rooftop of St. Barts.

_**“SHERLOCK.”** _

He closes his eyes as the first drops of tears for the night fell.

John told the marble everything that happened in his life. Just like he always did. Just like before. Before when Sherlock was still alive, they would talk after cases until it was late at night. It doesn’t matter if both of them are knackered. It doesn’t matter if John would be on shift the next day for ten hours and he needed to _sleep._ What matters is that he and Sherlock would have _that_ time only for themselves. Away from NSY, away from Mycroft, even from Mrs. Hudson’s _knowing looks._ And they’d laugh at the silly cases and the misadventures of their younger selves. And John would laugh some more at the mention of Anderson and Donovan with Sherlock’s not safe for work commentaries. By and by he pauses and listens to his surroundings. He knew it’s quite late. And the criminals of London’s were more alive at night. He’s aware of the vulnerability of his situation, alone in the cemetery. After reassuring himself that it’s safe, he talks to Sherlock again. It was the continuous loop of memories from his mind that made John talk and talk. And by the time he was finished he lost track of time. And he wasn’t sure if he actually fell asleep.

But when he opens his eyes, he found himself head bowed down to his stomach. Oh. He _did_ , fell asleep.

John squints his eyes on around struggling to see through the _fog._

He got up and heard his joints crack at the same time. He even forgot his torch.

_Bloody hell. This isn’t good._

Sighing, he looks back at the marble and nods at his best friend.

“Right,” He murmurs. "See you again, next time— _Sherlock_.” He says as he turns on his back and walks toward the pathway. Somewhere down in London, the clock tower strikes midnight.

And just as John steps into the moonlit ground he hears it.

It came after the twelve strikes of the clock tower. Starting as a hum of strings, then a set of chords— low and smooth—soothing. It was the sound of a violin.

John’s head snaps around for the source of the music. But through the impossibly thickening cloud of fog, he couldn’t see. And then John felt it. His whole body going rigid at the tingling sensation starting from the hair on the back of his neck to his arms. He’s having goosebumps.

It wasn’t the first time he felt it. But there’s something different in feeling it _now._

“Just the fog—the cold... comes from the fog…” He whispers to himself, eyes darting sideways and going further on the shadowed trees.

But his thoughts took him to someone. It was a laughable thought. That right on that moment he could imagine Sherlock saying—

“Really, John. Are you having a _midnight_ sanity crisis right now?” says the familiar voice just across him.

The moonlight clears the fog and John could see the familiar silhouette of a man, playing the violin. The instrument’s body resting comfortably as it had been under the man’s chin—long coat, tousled curls—and those eyes—those glassy eyes. John’s knees buckles but it didn’t touch the ground for he was saved by a set of bony fingers; _literally._  
He should have screamed, really, you be the one seeing  _moving_ skeletons and what more _dancing_. And _SKELETONS,_ not just one—not two—but a lot of them. And they’re all crowding at him, taking his hand— _dancing._ The bones of the dead drag him along passing him one by the other.

John dances and dances until the low soothing sound of the violin are now mixed with more woodwind instruments and a low spine-tingling chant. The dead still have their _voices_ or so John thought, and it wasn't long that John finds himself chanting with them. Unconsciously, even unsurprising that he _knows_ the words. And John finds himself actually enjoying it. He didn’t care that he was dancing with skeletons. The music drives him around the grave with all these dead people.

_People._

Because when the moonlight passes by the bones they turn into well-dressed aristocrats, kings that he barely remembers the names, little children in their school uniforms, bakers and chefs in their toques. Like people from all of the walks of life had been summoned to the grave. John even dances with the emperor, and it should be ridiculous but John had never felt _alive_  than he did, despite the dawn of dead around him.

The music reaches the midpoint and everyone including him claps as the beat becomes faster and faster, erupting with energy, turning the night into a festival. And John for the first time, since he last remembered— _laughed._ The little children circle him while smiling. John smiles back. He took a little girl by her waist and spun her around. The dead cheers and they’re dancing again. The invisible orchestra climaxes playing very strong dynamics and just as John thought it was finished, a low waltz from a violin fills the air.

The dead parts leaving John in a circle. He looks at them in awe and found them smiling at him and pointing behind him. And when he turns around, he finds Sherlock looking at him, a hand extended for him to reach.

“May I have this dance with you, John?” Sherlock asks him. John watches as Sherlock walks to the center of their makeshift circle with the moonlight beaming at them.  
John’s breath caught in his chest. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He feels like if he opens his mouth everything would vanish. He steps forward and took Sherlock’s hand.  
Sherlock squeezes his hand and John felt the  _warmth_ spread through his shivering body, which he actually forgot.

“You can have me. Right here, right now,” Sherlock murmurs, reassuring.

And for God knows how many times in his life, John Watson trusted Sherlock Holmes.

He leans forward, slowly, awkwardly, waiting for something _wrong_ to happen. For this _dream_ to break. Because John felt he was dreaming.

Only, Sherlock’s warmth grounds him to reality. That what was happening is real.

He wraps his arms around Sherlock—feeling him, smelling him. John thought Sherlock didn’t smell dead. But then again—

“Midnight crisis?” Sherlock voices out his thoughts.

“Err..” John clears his throat. “Yeah. Sorry—I just—“

“Understandable,” Sherlock whispers to him. John gasps as he felt Sherlock’s lips on the sensitive skin of his ear as he was being pulled even closer. And if there’s something John held at bay when he was with Sherlock, it was his libido which is definitely going to make him crazy. And of course, John convinces himself that it was the energetic drive of the dance that arouses him.

_Yeah. Go on. Suit yourself._

John clears his throat. “Sherlock …?”

His best friend hums in reply, deep voice resonating in every piece of his rattling bones.

“Are you really …” John stops the words from escaping his lips.

_No. Stop. Just—let yourself have this, even for the last time._

What does this mean even? He didn’t even know that he wants  _this._ Dancing with Sherlock, having Sherlock’s body pressed against him. Yes. They had been in a situation like this before. What with the cases that both of them ended up naked. But it didn’t mean anything then. He looks at Sherlock and sees a very attractive man. Charming as he described him on their first meeting. But that’s just it, even when he learns that girlfriends aren’t Sherlock’s area. Nothing has changed.

_Are you sure? Nothing?_

The voice inside him asks calmly.

John thought of the answer. He thought of the times when he was staring at Sherlock and the man stares back as well. He admits that usually, it was him who backs down. But it couldn’t really mean anything, right? Usually, Sherlock’s presence just fills a space. No matter how huge or small it is. It felt suffocating.

That’s why he’s having a hard time moving on. Because Sherlock just _fills_ him. And when Sherlock _died_ —John chokes back the tears he didn't realised were already brimming in his eyes.

Every thought—every memory—everything that he sees, every part of him. Sherlock had been a part as well. Because Sherlock _meant_ so much to him. More than what he thought, more than anything.

_Well, that’s it. Isn’t it? You know what to do. Get the hell on with it._

John froze as the realisation dawns upon him. And he knows he ought to say something.

But what if the words he’ll say will put an _end_ to everything. John closes his eyes as he broke into tears. His hands gripping hard on the back of his best friend’s coat.

“I’ve missed you,” He murmurs against Sherlock’s chest. “—So much… I’ve missed you so much. It hurts. I’ve asked you every time for a single miracle, Sherlock. I’ve asked you not to be dead.”

He felt Sherlock’s lips pressing a soft kiss against his hair. “I know, John. I've heard you, every single time...”

John looks up at the face of the man in front of him. The moonlight had made Sherlock even more beautiful, John thought. Pale complexion, pale-green eyes that goes stormy grey at times when the man was focused on a case. John was just thankful that he's seeing Sherlock right now. Whatever this is, he would never exchange it for anything. Sherlock smiles at him, a genuine smile and John felt his heart aching in longing and pain.

The flashback of the past two years of mourning floods John’s senses. He tastes his tears, his pain, and his grief. He remembers the smell of the fresh white lilies from Sherlock’s funeral, an onslaught to his nose. And John saw the hidden desire he had for his best friend took shape as the man slightly pulls away from him to take his face with delicate hands, leaning down to kiss him fully on the lips. John lets go of Sherlock’s coat, his hands finds Sherlock’s arm and the other grabs the back of Sherlock’s head closer to him. Then he feels Sherlock’s thumb nudging his chin softly, coaxing his mouth to open and as he does Sherlock’s free hand pulls on his hair gently, and their tongues explore each other’s. He moans shamelessly as Sherlock deepens the kiss. When John felt his knees are about to give up, Sherlock pulls back lightly away from him, allowing John to breathe freely and then wraps an arm around him and devours his lips again.

John had never been kissed by anyone like this before. But he also knew in the remaining years of his life he wouldn’t kiss anyone else _this way._ This night will be buried in the deepest parts of his thoughts and when his life ends, it will be a memory he would go back into—over and over again.

And at that moment John hears Sherlock’s voice inside his head, carrying the words that would give him the reason to continue living until the ends of his days—warm, smooth, low, just like the lowest sound any instrument could make.

_“I love you, John.”_

John felt Sherlock’s lips growing colder against his. His body trembles as he stood. And as everything around him fades to light, John was sure he hears the rattling of bones sounding farther and farther away from him. And the sound of the fading music only accompanied by his whisper.

_“I love you too, Sherlock.”_

###

  
When John opens his eyes, it was dawn. He was now lying in front of Sherlock’s headstone with his bones aching from the night’s sitting down. He sat up careful not to pull a vein or a muscle and looked down at his watch.

11/01 | 06:20 AM

He couldn’t even remember lying down and falling asleep. But he did remember the shameful one-sided conversation he had with a headstone. He squints his eyes from the morning light, rubbing them to remove the vestiges of sleep. He stood up dusting off his trousers, a bit damp by sitting on the grass all night.  
Then he looks around just like he did before from his previous visits. Silently hoping deep within his heart, that Sherlock would appear behind one of the headstones, or the obelisks or the trees—or he daresay, come back from the grave.

But no. Sherlock is dead. And all he had were now memories of his best friend.  
Unconsciously, he lifts a finger and touches his lips. It felt a bit raw and tingling.

 _Definitely from the cold._ He thought.

Just then, a murder of crows startles him as they flew past the willow tree across the clear blue sky. John sighs as he watches the birds fly away from the grave. He stays a bit longer and when the sun’s morning rays are already touching some of the old aged tombstones, he decides to go home, Mrs. Hudson was probably worried. And if she does, Sherlock would definitely be upset at him. And he didn’t want a cranky _ghost_ of a consulting detective stomping on their flat on a fit and throwing his things out. The thought _almost_ made him smile.

  
He was about to turn back when he saw his reflection across the headstone in front of him. His hand slowly reaching out to something stuck on his ear. When he finally plucks the thing, he was surprised to see a single white lily on his hand, the flower was definitely _new._

“A child probably left this here,” He murmurs to himself. John put the single flower among those he had given to Sherlock. “Can you believe that Sherlock? A child giving you a flower?” He says softly while brushing away the dead leaves that the wind had carried over Sherlock's grave. Then he pulls the longer grasses that sprouted around Sherlock’s plot and tried to remove the smaller ones.

Finally, feeling satisfied with what he did, he straightens himself murmuring his last goodbyes and a ‘See you again, next year’ and then he turns around walking back the way he’d been last night.

 _Well, that was something new. Not going to ask for a miracle this time?_ The voice inside his head speaks.

He pauses for a moment along the pathway and looks back to the marble headstone and the white lilies freshly kissed by the morning dew in the distance—and for the first time in two years, John smiles.

“I’ve had enough,” He says out loud, then he turns away and walks the path towards the bus terminal.

The voice in John’s head vanishes completely as he lived his life. But when the night comes, in the comfort of Sherlock’s bedroom at 221b—it was being replaced by a distant memory from the back of his mind. The vague memory of a certain dance festival he once attended and the feel of warm lips against his. All of these soon had been forgotten. But what the mind forgets, the heart always, _always_ , remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT: PLEASE READ: PRETTY PLEASE:
> 
> I was so excited when this idea came into my mind, because it's a favourite topic of mine. Half-inspired by Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book because that's where I first read about the _Dance of Death_. It was my most favourite book of his. I've done some _googling_ for this, especially about the _danse_ itself because it was _vital_ to the story. But STILL my sources can't be all quite correct, so I take responsibility-- if there are any errors, they're on me. I've also made a slight change for the fiction to happen in the way that I want. The original arrangement of the orchestra doesn't involve the 'Waltz' part, when Sherlock and John began to dance. It was just actually a short break until the oboe sounds depicting the rattling of bones, the skeletons going back to the grave and marking the end of the dance. 
> 
> This is a great thesis about [Danse Macabre](http://owll.massey.ac.nz/pdf/writing-your-thesis-dance-macabre.pdf)  
> And this was about the piece I've listened while typing this work: [Danse macabre (Saint-Saëns)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danse_macabre_\(Saint-Sa%C3%ABns\))
> 
> P.S. If you're familiar with the subject, then you'll know who personified 'Death' on this work. I had goosebumps when I just realised that after finishing this. Promise, it was unintentional.


End file.
